Five Times Peter Said Sorry to Tony Stark
by AgentNerd
Summary: ...and the one time he didn't have to. Complete.
1. Casualty

**1\. Casualty**

" _Shit!_ " Peter exclaimed as an explosion ripped through the air, a parked taxi propelled from the blast and flying towards him a moment later. He quickly jumped out of the way, the fender brushing past his arm as he just barely managed to dodge it.

" _Language!_ " Tony scolded through the comm as he fought more bots one block over. Then, a second later, " _Are you okay?_ "

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Peter said, "Almost just became flying roadkill. How many you got left?"

" _Five. But I should be done with them soon_ ," he responded.

Peter didn't team up with Iron Man often. Well actually, the one and only time he'd ever teamed up with Iron Man was that battle in Germany against Captain America. Not for Peter's lack of checking in, of course, because he did that almost every day. Just a quick text to Happy, letting him know that he was ready and willing should Tony need him, maybe with an appropriate emoji tacked on to the end. Happy never texted back, so Peter figured it was okay for him to keep doing it. Just in case.

This mission didn't really start as a team up either. It was more like a, 'a-bunch-of-bio-robot things-just-attacked-downtown Manhattan-and-the-police-got-overwhelmed-so-Iron-Man-and Spider-Man-happen-to-show-up-around-the-same-time-to-fix-things' kind of deal. Whatever. Peter wasn't going to look a superhero gift horse in the mouth.

They'd been doing well, clearing out all the civilians and beating the bio-robots by targeting a weak point on the joint at the base of their necks, but these things seemed to have some heavy artillery and a penchant for creating small explosions, and Peter was _not_ envying whoever was going to be paying for the property damage they were causing.

Actually, that was probably going to be Mr. Stark. Perks of being a billionaire.

Peter was down to four of the bots, and as he swung around on a building he managed to get behind two of them and blast their weak point with some web fluid: they went down. Two to go.

As Peter started to stake out one of the remaining ones, his spider sense blew up in his head, and he whipped around to face the other bot at the same moment as it fired out a shot, the crack of it resounding through the air. He webbed at a nearby building, desperately trying to pull himself out of the way as he saw the bullet coming straight at his heart. He launched through the air, and for a minute, thought he had been fast enough.

"Ha, have to be quicker than that to bring Spider-Man down!"

Then, a white-hot pain spiked through his left leg.

"Ffffff-udge," Peter groaned as he pulled himself onto the roof of which he'd been swinging off, needing just a minute to collect himself.

" _Language."_

"I didn't even…! Forget it," Peter said dismissively, drawing in a sharp breath as he shifted his leg so he could see the injury better. The bullet had gone through the fleshy part of his left thigh, a few inches above and slightly to the left of his knee. He didn't think it had hit the bone, but it was bleeding pretty badly, and it hurt a hell of a lot. Two of those robots were still out there though, and with Tony dealing with his own, Peter knew he'd just have to suck up the pain and get on with it. Tony had been hesitant about letting Peter fight when he'd first shown up, and there was no way Peter was going to sit back and show weakness in front of his mentor. Besides, city needed him.

He nearly swore again as he shot the bullet hole with web fluid, knowing from experience that it would work well for at least temporary bandage.

" _Are you okay?...again?"_ Tony said through the comm, " _I thought I heard a…noise, or something._ "

"No, all good here, perfectly good, fine, almost done actually. Race you to see who can kill their bots first?"

Tony didn't answer, so Peter took that as a sign to start moving again. He stumbled when he first tried to stand as pain shot through his leg, but with a deep breath, he eased himself up and took a second to get used to the uncomfortable sensation. As soon as this was over, he decided, he was going to go home, sleep for a few hours, and let his healing ability kick in.

Peering over the edge of the rooftop, he noticed the bot that shot him was just below on the pavement, having seemingly lost interest in him as it fired more artillery into shop windows. He tried to scale down the wall quietly, but his foot slipped on a chunk of brickwork that had been blown away, and he let out a yelp. The bot heard him and immediately turned to his direction. Only about ten feet from the ground at this point and with nothing else to lose, he jumped to the ground, putting as much of the impact onto his right leg as possible. He flipped out of the way as it started shooting at him once again, dodging behind a row of parked cars and staying down as he tried to gain some ground. It paused for a moment, seeming to have lost him, and he used that opportunity to sneak up behind it and nail it right in the weak spot, sending it down.

Suddenly, and small explosion sounded behind Peter. He whipped around at the noise to see the final robot, headless, with a glowing Iron Man hovering behind its decapitated body.

" _I win_." Tony said.

"Hey, that was super cool Mr. Stark; any chance you could give my suit that kind of firepower?"

" _No way. You'll shoot your eye out."_ He teased.

"Ha ha," Peter said dryly as he made his way over, "Y'know, this was fun, we should do this again sometime."

" _Sure, kid. Next time rampaging monsters are trying to destroy half the city, we'll be sure to make a date of it,"_ Tony responded sarcastically. Suddenly, Peter's phone buzzed. He pulled it out and read the text that appeared on his screen.

"Aw crap, I'm late for dinner and May's getting worried. I gotta go!" he turned around to leave, trying to remember where he stowed his backpack, when suddenly Tony's faceplate rose, leaving his voice to ring out crystal clear:

"Hold on, is that _blood_?"

Peter froze and looked down at his leg. Blood had started to leak through the webbing, and when combined with the stuff that was already on his pant leg when it had first happened, it didn't look very pretty.

He coughed. "Yeah, a bit…"

"What happened?" Tony demanded.

"I was just shot a little by one of the bots, I'm fine, really…"

"I asked you before if you were okay. Why didn't you tell me you had been shot!" He came closer to Peter and bent down slightly to inspect it. Peter squirmed away from him.

"I didn't say anything because it's not that big of a deal! I've been hurt before, I can handle it…" he started to defend.

"There's no exit wound. Were you expecting to remove a _bullet_ from your bunk bed? Maybe use your aunt's tweezers and a compact mirror?" Tony responded harshly. Peter withered under the tone.

"I-I thought…my healing ability…"

"It's not gonna help you metabolize metal, kid. Look, I don't care if you get a scrape, or a bruise, or anything that can heal within a few hours. You can handle that yourself. But you get shot, or stabbed or something like that? You tell someone. Me, Happy, hell, if you can make up some sort of excuse you can tell your aunt. I don't care if you think it _might_ be okay, if it would send a normal person to the hospital, you don't get to make that call. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir."

"God, don't call me sir— _reminds me too much of my dad_ ," he muttered, "But one more thing: if god forbid you ever get hurt again when we're fighting together, do _not_ lie to me when I ask if you're okay. It might not be safe to stop and you might have to keep fighting anyway, but you do _not_ keep me in the dark."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stark," Peter said, hanging his head.

Tony sighed. The kid looked like a kicked puppy, "Just…let's get you to the tower. This might hurt."

And with that, his faceplate closed, and he swept Peter up into his metal arms, headed toward Avengers Tower.

…

"BRUCE!" Tony yelled into the living room of the tower as soon as they stepped in from the balcony. Peter jumped at the suddenness of it, having been shifted to the ground from Tony's arms, but still with an arm around his shoulder. A minute later, a voice could be heard, growing louder as a mousy, bespectacled man rounded the corner into the living room.

"…look, I said I'm sorry multiple times for leaving you already, just _please_ don't make me watch another episode of Great British Bake Off…"

"Hey, that is quality television!" Tony defended. "But anyway, it's not about that. Bruce, meet Peter. Peter, Bruce Banner."

Peter's eyes went wide as the man stopped in front of him, all bad feelings from his earlier chastisement forgotten. "Wait, _the_ Bruce Banner? Like, gamma radiation, super cool scientist Bruce Banner?"

"That's me," the man said with a slight smile, holding out his hand.

"Dude," Peter said, shaking the scientist's hand with the one of his that wasn't currently around Tony's shoulder. "I'm like, a huge fan. I've read all of your journals."

"Well, it's nice to finally meet you. Tony's talked a lot about you."

Peter's eyes snapped to Tony, then back to Bruce, "Wait, really? What did he say?"

"That you're an idiot," Tony interrupted, "An idiot who was about to walk off a _gunshot wound_ without telling anyone."

"Really? You don't look like you're in that much pain," Bruce observed.

"Ah, yeah. Excitement overriding pain right now. Kind of starting to come back though," he winced as he tried to adjust his stance, "But it's really not that bad…"

"Gunshot wounds can be tricky. Your healing abilities might be able to mend the skin with time, but it won't necessarily help with any possible infection. I assumed you called me to take care of it?" Bruce asked, looking to Tony.

"You got it Science Bro. C'mon kid, to the infirmary."

"Science Bro? Can I be a Science Bro?" Peter asked.

"No. Science Bros have common sense," Tony retorted.

What followed in the next two minutes was an awkward shuffle to the elevator down to the infirmary, where Peter tried to walk as much as possible but just ended up mostly leaning on Tony.

"Do you have suture supplies in here?" Bruce asked, rummaging through some drawers against the wall.

"If you don't see any we must've just run out. There should be some extra stuff in the closet down the hall."

As Bruce left the room to go hunt down the needed supplies, Peter successfully managed to pull off his spider suit and webbing bandage in the process. It started to bleed freely again, not as badly as it was before, but enough to make Tony swear at seeing it.

"Language," Peter mocked.

"Shut up, kid," Tony snapped.

"Okay, I found it." Bruce said, reemerging into the room with a bundle full of supplies.

He frowned when he noticed the blood slowly leaking from the wound. Setting his supplies down on a table next to the bed, he slipped on a pair of gloves and pushed his glasses further up on his nose. "Let's take a look at the damage, then." As Bruce started to examine Peter's leg, a sudden, probably irrational thought occurred to the teenager: _Oh my god. I'm not wearing pants in front of Bruce Banner_. Tony barked out a laugh, and Peter clapped a hand over his mouth as he felt his face heat up, realizing he'd just said that out loud.

"Don't worry, I worked as a doctor in the slums of India for a while, and I've lived in quite a few other third-world countries besides. Nothing phases me." He said, kindly but with a wry grin on his face as he pulled back from his examination.

"Well, unfortunately the bullet's still in there, so I'll need to remove it before I can do anything else. Tony mentioned you have advanced healing powers?"

Peter nodded.

"I'll give you an anesthetic before I go digging around, but I'm afraid your body might process it too quickly, and it might not do you much good. I'll try to be as quick as I can, alright?"

He prepared a syringe and smoothly injected it into Peter's arm. Peter could feel the drug take effect almost immediately: dulling the pain, but not stopping it completely. Bruce measured his reaction carefully. "How do you feel?"

"Better," Peter said, "But I still _do_ feel, if that's what you're asking. And it feels like pain."

"I'd better get started then," Bruce commented. "Tony, could you help make sure he stays still?"

Tony came forward, and at Bruce's direction held the lower part of Peter's leg down to the cot in a firm grip. Peter closed his eyes as the scientist went in to remove the bullet, sure that watching would make him want to vomit. His spider sense went off as the pain spiked, and every instinct was screaming at him to move, to try to escape it, but Tony held him still, and he willed his body to calm down. He couldn't help it when a whine escaped his lips after a particularly sharp spike.

"Almost done Peter, just a little bit…there," Bruce said triumphantly, and the next thing he heard was the _clink_ of the bullet dropping into a dish. "Now I'm just going to clean the wound and stitch it up. I don't think you've lost enough blood to warrant a transfusion, so this shouldn't take too long."

The stitching was nothing in comparison. Bruce seemed to have a practiced hand and finished the job quickly and rather painlessly. "And these sutures dissolve naturally, so you won't even have to worry about getting them taken out," he mentioned.

"My recipe. Better than what the hospitals have; I'm working on the patent," Tony bragged.

"And it's best if you keep off the leg as much as possible," Bruce added, "Just try to stay in bed and relax for the weekend."

Bed. Home. May. Oh no. "May!" Peter shouted.

"Don't worry, I texted her on the way over here. Said I was keeping you for some internship stuff," Tony said, and Peter relaxed visibly.

"Also, you're benched for a week."

"What!"

"Maybe next time you won't be an idiot when you get hurt…and I need to fix the suit."

Peter flopped back on the bed and sighed. He knew Tony could probably fix the suit in a few hours, and was only drawing it out to a week to punish him. He got it, though: he messed up.

"Now let's see if we can find you some clothes to go home in. I think Pepper left a pair of sweat pants lying around somewhere…"

Peter groaned. This was never going to end.


	2. Wasted

**2\. Wasted**

"Hey Karen…d'you know why I named you Karen?" Peter said as he swung through the back alleys of Queens, the cold air blowing past him starkly contrasting with the warm, fuzzy feeling in his head.

 _"No, Peter. Why?"_ the AI in his suit indulged.

"Spongebob," Peter said. "Like…like that computer lady in Spongebob, that was Plankton's wife. Have you ever seen Spongebob, Karen?"

" _No, but I can download information about it into my system,_ " she paused for a moment. " _Information downloaded. Karen seems like a sensible program._ "

"She is. She's smart," Peter explained as he aimed for his next building, "Just like you're smart."

" _I'm flattered,_ " she said, and it really was amazing how genuine Tony had programmed her voice to be.

"Karen, everything is fuzzy. And the buildings are moving around."

" _You're currently intoxicated, Peter. It might not be such a good idea for you to be swinging around right now."_

"No no, m'fine… _oomph!_ " he grunted as he slammed face first into the side of a building, the shock of it making him loose grip on his webbing as he fell a considerable distance to the ground of the alley below.

 _"Initiating babysitter protocol. Calling Tony Stark."_

"What! Karen, no no, m'fine, stop…"

" _Hey kid, what's up_?" Tony said, a static picture of his face appearing in the HUD of Peter's suit as the call connected. He sounded distracted, and Peter could hear AC/DC music playing softly in the background. He must have been working on something in his workshop.

"Oh hey Mr. Sssstark, didn't mean t' call you sorry bye…" Peter slurred as tried to remember how to hang up on calls in this suit. Was there a button or something? He didn't remember a button…

" _You okay? You didn't hit your head or something, did you? I wasn't alerted of any concussion…"_

"No, no, m'okay, just gotta go…" He'd be left with a few good bruises tomorrow, but right now that didn't matter because Tony was still on the line and _how the hell does he hang up in this thing?_

" _Hold on, are you **drunk**_?" Tony said incredulously, and a second later the music in the background stops.

"How do I hang up?"

" _Karen, what's his BAC?"_

 _"Blood alcohol content is currently at .146 percent"_ the computer in his suit replied.

"Karen!" Peter protested.

" _Where are you right now?_ "

"I don't—"

" _No, scratch that, I just got your location from the tracker in your suit. Stay where you are, do you understand me?"_

"But—"

" _Call ended_ ," Karen announced, and _of course_ Tony would figure it out before he did. He tried to get up, tried to start moving because he knew from the tone of voice his mentor had before he hung up that if he stayed there things were going to be _not good_ for him, but as soon as he started to stand a wave of nausea hit him so strongly that he fell right back to the ground. He swallowed hard, trying to force the feeling away.

Okay, yeah he was drunk, but maybe he had good reason to be. Maybe he still had reoccurring nightmares about tons of concrete and steel coming crashing down on top of him, waking up unable to breathe; and maybe he nearly once had a panic attack in the shower because he felt like the walls were closing in on him, and the spray was drowning him; and maybe when Flash challenged him to a drinking contest at that party he thought it might be the perfect opportunity to finally _forget_ all of it, if only for a little while.

Maybe he didn't want to have to explain himself to Tony.

At that moment, the Iron Man suit touched down in front of him. Without a word, it picked Peter up into its arms and took off again, heading to the penthouse Peter knew that Tony had taken up as his New York residence ever since the tower had been sold. The flight, though smooth, was still enough to jostle Peter's stomach even further, and he closed his eyes and forced himself to not think about it.

Soon enough they landed on the balcony of the penthouse and Peter was set down on his wobbly feet. Seconds later, Tony Stark himself stepped smoothly out of the suit, composed as ever with the most disappointed frown on his face imaginable.

"Mask off. Look at me." He ordered.

Peter pulled it off after a moment of fumbling, and he took the next moment to throw up on Tony's shoes. To the part of his mind not thinking about things like consequences, it felt like a victory.

Tony slipped off the shoes with a huff and left them on the balcony as he shepherded Peter inside and all but shoved him onto the couch.

"What were you thinking?" he scolded.

"Hey," Peter defended "You're the one who wanted me to be more like a ' _normal teenager'_!" he did air quotes.

"I meant playing video games and eating junk food with your friends, or dating, or something, not going out binge drinking! You're fifteen for god's sake!"

"So were like, half the people at that party! Why're you overreacting?"

Tony narrowed his eyes, "I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that."

"You were doing worse at my age!" Peter argued. Tony was infamous for his drunken teenage antics, even Peter knew that. It was a low blow, and he knew it but the alcohol thought it was a good idea, and what else was he supposed to say? The man was being totally unfair.

Tony's hands balled into fists at his side, knuckles turning white. "You're right. I was doing worse at your age," he said sharply, "But you're supposed to be better than me. You're supposed to have a _modicum_ of responsibility."

"It's not that big of a deal!"

"Yes, it is. Look kid, I don't care if you choose to have a beer with some friends. Hell, I don't care if you have more than a beer, as long as you don't do anything stupid. But no, you got wasted and then went out in the _suit_. Do you have any idea how reckless that is? Just what exactly were you planning on doing with that?"

Peter opened his mouth to respond.

"No, don't answer that, I don't care what you were planning. Because here's what would have happened: you try to stop your usual neighborhood crime. Some petty thief, a shady guy cornering a woman in an alley, take your pick. They pull out a gun, or a knife, and your reaction time is shot so you don't stop them in time. They hurt your or somebody else, pontentially fatally. And if you just wanted to swing around for a bit? You were already on the ground when I found you, and all it takes is one misplaced web from thirty stories up. You could have seriously hurt yourself, and what would have happened if you passed out somewhere wearing the suit? Anyone could find you, could discover your identity, and then it would all be over. Did you even think about that?

"No," Peter answered, all fight in him gone.

"No, of course you didn't," Tony said with a long-suffering sigh. He ran a hand tiredly over his face.

"Are you gonna take my suit away again?" Peter asked in a small voice, the thought suddenly occurring to him. He drew his knees up to his chest and tucked his chin into them. Tony's expression softened just slightly.

"No, I know better than that. Your killer headache tomorrow will be punishment enough, _and_ I'll be having FRIDAY send you a recording of this conversation, because I doubt you're going to remember most of this and I don't want to have to repeat myself,"

"I'm sorry."

"Just…" he sighed again, "just don't do this again, okay kid?"

…

Peter didn't remember how he got home in his state without alerting Aunt May. But the next morning, he did indeed wake up to a splitting headache to go along with his foggy memory. Out of habit, he immediately reached out to his bedside table to check the time on his phone, only to find a bottle of aspirin sitting next to it.

 _9:46 a.m._

 _irondad (7:23):_

 _irondad (7:24): Also, you're cleaning the puke off my shoes_


	3. Insomnia

**3\. Insomnia**

"You're late."

"Oh, uh yeah, sorry Mr. Stark, I would've called but I forgot to charge my phone last night so I was at like, fifty-two percent battery when I went to school this morning and I thought it would be totally okay, 'cause fifty-two percent is more than half, and that's okay, right? But…it wasn't okay. It died." Peter said in a rush as he entered Tony's workshop, shucking off his backpack and pulling out the spider suit. Tony dismissed the hologram schematic he had been working on to give the kid a carefully measured stern look.

"And just what exactly was so worth your valuable time that you decided to waste _my_ valuable time by being an hour and a half late to our meeting?"

Peter rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, avoiding Tony's eyes, "I uh…got detention."

"Detention," Tony repeated flatly.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Oh, I just fell asleep in class again…for like the fourth or fifth time, but it's not that big of a deal, and you have a plane to Paris at eight o'clock tonight, right? We better get working on those upgrades," He said quickly, turning his back on Tony so he could place the suit on the workbench across the room, "So I was thinking, maybe we can reinforce the—"

"Oh no, you're not getting off that easy," Tony said, approaching Peter and spinning him around to make eye contact. "You know Happy sends me copies of your progress reports, right? Your grades are slipping."

Peter groaned, "Not you too…"

"You're too smart to almost be getting a C in English. Besides that, no intern of mine is going to have a subpar report card. Any chance this might be connected to the 'falling asleep in class' thing?"

"I've just been having some trouble sleeping lately, that's all."

"How late are you staying out patrolling?"

Peter rubbed the back of his neck as he thought, a nervous tic Tony had picked up on recently. "Until, like…one o'clock…usually—but I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway if I was home, so I might as well be doing something useful, right? And you _know_ there's been an increase in crime around Queens recently…"

"Which the police are perfectly equipped to handle," Tony snapped.

"That's not the point! I _can't sleep_ , that's the problem!" Peter cried, slumping down onto a stool and running his hands through his hair in frustration. He focused his gaze on the tile floor, refusing to look back up at Tony as his voice got softer, more desperate. "I just…I have nightmares, okay?"

"About Toomes?" Tony asked, taking a seat next to him, and if Peter didn't know any better he'd describe the man's voice as—well, not gentle, but softer. Not angry anymore.

"Toomes, drowning in the Hudson, the usual everyone I love dying because of me…"

Tony put a hand on Peter's shoulder, and finally the teenager looked back up, eyes suspiciously watery, "Look, kid. I know this probably doesn't help right now, but I've been through a hell of a lot more crap than you have in my life, and…it gets better. It never goes completely away, but it gets better, and you'll sleep easier. It just takes time."

"Thanks." Peter said with a sniff. Tony dropped his hand as the kid moved to wipe his eyes. This conversation was starting to feel somewhere between heartfelt and awkward, and both of those things were completely out of Tony's comfort zone. But he continued anyway.

"And, sometimes…it can help to talk about it…"

Peter hadn't told anyone the details of what had happened to him the night he faced off with Toomes. Almost every night now, he would relive it vividly in his dreams: the crushing pain of hundreds of pounds of concrete and industrial parts on his body, soaked in freezing water and hot blood. The panic setting in as he realized no one was coming for him. Feeling his lungs get smaller and smaller as he _couldn't breathe_ , and then he'd wake up and he'd still feel it, he still gasped for air it was all still happening, _god_ he felt so alone, he hadn't thought he was ready to talk about it before, but maybe if he just told Tony—

"I know someone you can talk to, if you want," Tony continued, and something heavy dropped in Peter's chest. Oh. "She knows all about the superhero stuff, great at what she does and completely trustworthy. It helps, sometimes. I could give you her card..."

"Thanks, Mr. Stark." he said, "but I can't. My identity, I just…"

"I understand," Tony interrupted, but he pulled the card out of his wallet and held it out anyway. "Just take it, for if you ever change your mind."

Peter took the card and slipped it into his pocket.

"Mr. Stark, I'll be okay." He wasn't sure if he believed it, but he said it anyway.

"I know you will, kid," Tony said firmly.

They worked in silence after that. Tony tinkered on the suit while Peter worked on his web shooters, the only sound in the shop being the soft music Tony had put on in the background. Absorbed in his task, Tony only drew his focus away from the suit when he heard a soft _thud_ as something hit the table. He turned his head to see Peter slumped onto the surface, head resting on hands that still held one of his web shooters and a screwdriver, softly snoring. A small smile appeared on Tony's face, and he pulled out his phone to snap a picture of the kid that may or may not be used as blackmail in the future.

He rose from his own stool and pried the tools out of Peter's hands, then gently scooped the boy up in his arms. The fact that Peter wasn't waking up immediately at the touch was a testament to just how exhausted he was. Tony carried him over to the couch in the corner of his workshop and laid him down there, pulling a ratty old blanket that had been haphazardly thrown over the back of couch and draping it over the boy.

He checked his phone. It was only seven-fifteen. Tony would have to leave soon, but the kid obviously needed this. He shot a quick text to Aunt May saying Peter was staying overnight, then one to Happy telling him to take care of the kid and drive him to school in the morning. He looked at Peter's sleeping form, looking so much younger than he usually did.

 _God, this kid's going to be the death of me_ , Tony thought.

…

Peter didn't have nightmares that night. He woke up the next morning to an alarm on his phone he didn't set, curled up on Tony's Stark's couch with a blanket tucked around him. A note sat on the arm of the couch:

 _Your curfew is 11. If you're out with the suit after that on a school night, I will personally send one of_ my _suits to drag your ass back home._

A warm feeling ignited in Peter's chest as he read the note.

The nightmares would be back, he knew. But for now, at this exact moment, he truly felt okay.


	4. Introductions

**4\. Introductions**

Tony looked up from the engineering journal he was reading on his Starkpad as Peter burst into his apartment, face already red as he started to speak, "Look, I'm sorry Mr. Stark, I tried to stop her, but once she puts her mind to something stopping her is kind of impossible, and she can get kind of scary sometimes so…"

Before he could even begin to ask what Peter was talking about, a girl appeared through the open door behind him.

"Woah," she said, looking around with wide eyes, "You could feed the entire homeless population of New York with the cost of this place."

Tony ignored her comment as he stood from his armchair and tossed the Starkpad onto the coffee table, "Uh, and you are?"

"Michelle Jones," Peter answered immediately, "MJ. She's—"

"His girlfriend," the girl, MJ, provided, eyes finally pulling away from the rest of the apartment to land on Tony Stark.

"Hold on. You have a girlfriend?"

"I know, right?" MJ said casually as Peter indignantly responded, " _Hey!_ "

Tony crossed his arms and looked to Peter, part of him already deciding he liked this girl, "Okay, so what is she doing here?"

"She knows," Peter responded.

"Seriously? Kid, it's your life, but the whole point of a secret identity is to keep it a secret."

"I didn't tell her!" he said, face heating up in embarrassment. "Apparently, she's known for months."

"Dude. I was sitting right behind you in gym class when you were talking to Ned about fighting Captain America. You weren't even trying to be quiet about it. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out," she explained. Tony gave Peter one of his _looks._

"No one else knows," Peter promised, "Besides Ned and May."

"Yeah, you're lucky you've got the Clark Kent thing going on, or else you'd be screwed," MJ supplied.

"Clark Kent thing?" Tony asked.

"You know, the hiding in plain sight thing! Like, 'oh, Peter sounds just like Spider-Man, and Peter and Spider-Man have never been seen in the same room together, but there's _no way_ Peter could actually _be_ Spider-Man because he's a dorky fifteen-year-old who does decathlon, and that would be _ridiculous,'"_ she explained.

"This still doesn't explain why you're here."

"I wanted to meet you," MJ said, taking the opportunity to pull out a nearby barstool and sit down on it. "You were my first protest. My parents took me when I was four years old to picket outside of a hotel you were making a big business deal at, back when you manufactured weapons."

"I'm flattered." Tony said dryly. MJ smirked.

"She's also a fan of Iron Man," Peter piped up.

Caught off-guard, she instantly blushed, "I am not!"

"I've seen that Iron Man t-shirt you own."

MJ launched herself from the chair and stalked toward Peter, fist raised, "Parker, that was a gift from my grandma, I _had_ to wear it and you know it…"

"Children!" Tony said, stepping forward to come between the two before any damage could be done, "As entertaining as this is, I actually did call Peter here for a reason."

"Right. Well, I better go anyway, I gotta help with dinner tonight," MJ backed up a few steps and lowered her fist. She walked to the door and reached for the handle, but right before opening it spun back around and looked Tony dead in the eye.

"Peter's been through a lot of shit because of you."

Tony was silent. He didn't know what to say.

"But I know he's a dumb idiot who would still choose to go through that shit even if you weren't around, and at least you're trying to keep him safe while doing it. So…thanks," and with that, she left.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Peter turned to Tony seeming somewhat surprised. "I think she likes you."

"Well, it's always nice to get approval. She's a catch, Pete."

"Yeah," he said, a slightly dreamy look coming over his face.

The corners of Tony's lips turned up into a small smile, "You really like her, don't you?"

"She's really cool," he said, "and smart, and pretty, and she kind of scares me but in a good way, y'know?"

Tony thought of Pepper, "Yeah, I do."

"And I…" he hesitated, "I think I might…love…her. Is that weird? Oh my god…"

Tony put a hand on the boy's shoulder, "Woah, calm down there kid. It's not weird. Look…I don't have the best track record with this kind of stuff. You actually, really should be talking to someone else about this, there's so many more qualified…well, that's beside the point. The point is, love is complicated. It's confusing, and messy, and exhausting. But it's worth it."

"What if I lose her?" Peter said quietly. "I can't…not again…"

"Peter, listen to me," Tony said firmly, "You can't think like that. You know being a hero comes with risks, and the world is a dangerous place, but you can't push the people you love away. You just have to do the best you can, and keep those people close while you can. You push them away, and everything else becomes worthless."

Peter looked up at him, "You're right. I-I'm just scared, sometimes, I guess. But thanks."

Tony patted him somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder. Then, a thought occurred to him to change the mood.

"Now, do I need to talk to you about safe sex?" he asked, delighting in how the teenager's eyes went wide and his face turned instantly beet red, "I can give you condoms, if you need…"

"Oh my god, no, stop it," Peter blurted out, face turning a deep shade of red as the previous topic of conversation was forgotten. "I will leave right now, I don't care what you called me here for, this is so not happening…"

Tony laughed harder than he'd laughed in a long time.


	5. Betrayal (Part One)

**A/N: Chapter five is running really long, so in the interest of providing a new chapter as soon as possible I've split it into two parts. Thank you all for the favorites, follows, and reviews!**

 **5\. Betrayal (Part One)**

Things had been…really _good_ recently.

Crime had been down, his relationship with MJ had been going super well (they'd gone on an actual _date_ , instead of just hanging out, to the movies with popcorn and soda and everything and it had been _great_ ). He'd been having less nightmares recently and as a result had been doing much better in school. The decrease in crime also meant he'd had more time to hang out with Ned, and they'd been able to build an entire fleet of Lego Star Wars ships that he'd gotten for his birthday. He'd still been meeting with Mr. Stark once or twice a month to work on suit upgrades, and now occasionally to do some training, which was _awesome_ ; Mr. Stark had even told Peter to call him Tony (he slipped up on that one a lot—force of habit, but the thought that he was on first-name basis with the man still made him a bit giddy). Honestly, it was probably the happiest he'd felt since Ben died.

He should have realized that it was only a matter of time before something gave.

Peter knew Tony had felt responsible for the Vulture incident, even if he didn't say as much. In the aftermath, he had personally taken up the responsibility of tracking down the weapons created by Toomes's outfit, and he'd been doing a good job. Any records Toomes might have kept detailing the amount of weapons he'd sold had either been hidden or destroyed, so there was no way of knowing exactly how many were still on the streets, but reports of crimes committed with alien weaponry had reduced to being almost non-existent.

But the thing was, Peter felt at least partly responsible for the whole thing too. Sure, he'd only been a little kid when Toomes first started his business, but once he became Spider-Man he'd had the power to do something about it. He'd been the first to find out about the weapons as it was. Maybe if he'd been better, or noticed earlier, or asked for help sooner and actually made them take him seriously, things wouldn't have gotten as bad as they did. And even though he caught the Vulture in the end, he couldn't help but still feel guilty about all the mistakes he'd made along the way. He knew he was supposed to stop worrying about the past, to focus on moving forward and helping people in the present, but a small part of his mind still felt that he had to do _something_ to help make things right.

So when Aaron Davis appeared in the middle of his patrol one night telling him a rumor about some thugs who had just acquired some stashed-away weapons, Peter listened.

Peter hadn't seen Davis since their confrontation in the parking garage. Queens was a big place, so it hadn't necessarily been expecting to see him again, but Davis also seemed to be keeping his head down recently. Whether he'd actually been swayed to the light from his encounter with Peter or (more likely) was just laying low while the police were cracking down extra hard on crime, it didn't really matter. Peter was just grateful for the tip.

"Like I said man, I don't want that shit anywhere near this neighborhood," Davis explained. Peter thanked him and made a mental note to buy the man a tub of ice cream sometime.

That was how he ended up in an abandoned warehouse (seriously, why were there so many of these? They were just hotbeds for villainous activity) in Brooklyn. His target was three guys who, according to Davis, had small brains and pretty big mouths. They were based in Queens, but had just made the arrangement to pick up the weapons from their contact, and as far as Davis knew, the deal was going down tonight. Perfect timing.

Peter slipped through a broken window and clung to the shadows as he made his way around piles of pallets and other useless junk toward the sound of gruff voices. Finally, he came upon four men. Two of the men were opening up a crate while a third stood nearby with a briefcase that Peter assumed held the money. The fourth was on the other side of the crate, looking at the other three impatiently.

"Hurry up, I don't have all night!"

"You get the money when we're sure we have the goods. That's the deal."

Peter took this as his chance. With a flick of his wrist, the briefcase was shot out of the man's hands and webbed to the wall.

"Sorry to break this party up, but shady dealings in the middle of abandoned warehouses are something I'm morally obligated to stop," he quipped. The man previously holding the briefcase was the first to move, pulling out a wicked looking switchblade and charging Peter. He dodged it, side-stepping around him and attaching a web to his feet. With a quick tug, the man fell to the ground.

"I don't think I like this party game. Have you ever tried a piñata? Much more fun. Plus, candy," he said as he kicked the blade out of the downed man's hands and webbed his arms and legs together.

Peter's spider sense buzzed in his head, and suddenly a pile of junk blew up behind him. He whipped around to see that the other two thugs had finally managed to get the crate open and had pulled out two giant guns. The seller was nowhere to be seen.

"Aw crap," Peter said, and seconds later rolled out of the way of another blast only for the other thug to anticipate the move, his second shot landing much more accurately.

His gun seemed to launch some sort of propelled energy, and being hit with it felt like being hit by the strongest, most concentrated gust of wind imaginable. Had he not been wearing his armored suit, Peter was sure it would have done some soft tissue damage. Instead, he was just thrown across the room, the force of it slamming him against a cinderblock wall.

Excruciating pain shot through Peter's body as he felt his right arm disconnect from his shoulder. He closed his eyes for a second and took a few deep breaths, pushing himself through it.

"Not cool," Peter grit out, "Y'know, I think I'm going to return my present. This party sucks."

He stood back up only somewhat shakily hid behind a concrete beam for a moment, trying to regroup and think of his next move. Making a decision, he ducked back out into the open to find the men starting to head his way. He shot his web at one of their guns, hoping to be able to pull it from his grasp, but it ended up connecting with his web and sending a shockwave through Peter's body. Like a domino effect, he stumbled and tripped over a loose chunk of concrete, his ankle twisted painfully, and he fell to the ground. He clutched the appendage for a moment with the hand on his good arm, swallowing back a curse. One of the men smiled viciously at the downed hero and aimed his gun right at Peter's head…

Suddenly, a dark, hoodie-wearing figure appeared out of the shadows and wrapped an arm around the thug's neck. His weapon clattered to the ground as his hands went instinctively to his throat, but the figure held steady. The thug struggled to gasp for air, but was helpless as he eventually passed out and slumped to the ground.

At the same time, another figure had emerged and run headfirst into close-combat with the other thug. With expert moves, he wrestled the gun out of the thug's hands and then grappled with him, landing a solid kick to his stomach that sent him stumbling backwards, then making quick work of subduing him into unconsciousness.

Both men turned to him, then, and Peter scrambled backward, realizing that whoever these guys were, they were a force to be reckoned with, and he was not in the best shape to take them on too. He winced as his right arm gave out from underneath him. Damn, that hurt.

One of the men held his hands in a peaceful gesture, then slowly took one of them and lowered his hood. In a steady, calm voice, he said, "Woah, take it easy, we won't hurt you."

Peter's eyes widened in shock. It was Steve Rogers.

"Yeah," the other man snorted, lowering his hood to reveal none other than Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, "Looks like those other guys already got that covered."

Steve shot him a sharp look, then turned back to Peter with a kinder expression "We can help you."

"Just stay away," Peter warned, bracing himself against a crate and pointing a web shooter in their direction. A surprised expression flashed across Barnes's face at the words.

"Oh my god," he said, "he's just a kid."

" _What_?" Steve said

"Don't you hear it, Stevie? He sounds just like all those baby-faced kids that lied about their age to enlist back in the day. I was kinda distracted in Germany so I didn't notice then but geez, you're no older than sixteen, are ya kid?" at his words, a look of realization crossed Steve's face.

"I'm not a kid!" Peter said angrily, wincing as he jarred his shoulder. His response only seemed to confirm their accusation.

"Stark knowingly put a child into a war zone," Steve rubbed his face, looking and sounding very tired, "I would say I'm surprised, but nothing about him surprises me anymore."

"I wanted to go," Peter said, feeling a strong need to defend Tony, "I wanted to help, I chose to fight, Mr. Stark didn't _put_ me in anything."

"It was still irresponsible to let you go. You could have gotten hurt—you _did_ get hurt," Steve said.

"Hey, you were the ones doing the hurting, y'know, that's kind of hypocritical!"

Steve's face twisted, "If I had known…I never would have…look, I can see your dislocated shoulder from here, will you just _please_ let us help?"

"Did he even tell you what you were fighting for?" Barnes, who had been strangely silent during the whole exchange, asked suddenly.

"What?" Peter asked.

"Stark. Before you charged headfirst into that battle, did he tell you what you were fighting for?"

To be honest, not really. Tony had given a brief rundown on the accords, and Peter had seen a little bit about the Vienna bombing in the news, but he didn't have any opportunity to learn about any of it in detail before he was handed over to Happy's disgruntled custody. But in any case, none of that really mattered to Peter at the time. Tony Stark had been his childhood idol, and if he supported the accords, that was good enough for Peter, because he wasn't really thinking about politics at the time anyway. For him, this was his chance to make his idol proud and finally prove to everyone (and himself) that he was a real hero. Maybe it hadn't been the best thought process in the world, but in the end he was a nerdy fifteen-year-old boy meeting _superheroes_ , could anyone really blame him for being a bit distracted?

"The accords," Peter answered finally.

"You know what those accords do?"

"It keeps heroes accountable. We need people to keep us in check," he said firmly, thinking back to the ferry, about all those people who almost died because he thought he could handle it himself, "Otherwise civilians can get hurt."

"And we should be held accountable if we mess up," Steve said, "but that's not what this is."

"It's complete governmental control," Barnes spat. "Any enhanced person who wants to help on people on a large scale is forced to submit themselves to the will of the United Nations. They have to reveal their identity, get tested and sampled like a lab rat, and _then_ they _still_ have to be approved to go on missions by a board of global bigwigs. And if that board gets corrupted? They have no protections, they can be accused of breaking the law and be legally held in prison indefinitely without a trial."

"But, it's the _United Nations_ , they wouldn't…"

"They did," Steve said, "Ant-Man, Falcon, Hawkeye…they restrained Scarlet Witch and repressed her powers like an asylum patient …all people who had proved their loyalty and stood up for what's right over and over again, and the powers that be were ready to leave them there to rot."

Peter stayed silent, unconsciously lowering his web shooter in the process. He knew that the fight had been real. It had been real, and people had gotten hurt, but even then, it had never seemed that _serious_ to Peter. To lock them all up indefinitely? That was harsh. They had saved various parts of the world multiple times, that wasn't easy to forget.

"And it'll only get worse. They don't care about small-scale heroes right now, but it's only a matter of time before they track down every vigilante and mutant trying to live a quiet life and force them to sign too. With all your publicity lately, I wouldn't be surprised if they were trying to track you down right now," Barnes said, "if Stark hasn't given your identity away already."

"He wouldn't do that," Peter defended, but unease grew in his gut all the same. He'd fought the people he'd considered best friends in support of the accords; if a government official pressed Tony for Peter's identity in the name of the law, why wouldn't he reveal it?

"If this was a year ago, I could guarantee you he wouldn't. Now, I'm not so sure," Steve said honestly, having slowly inched his way forward toward Peter during the conversation. He gestured at Peter's shoulder, "May I? Please?"

Peter pressed his lips together and nodded. Steve gently placed his hands on Peter's shoulder, feeling out the injury, and then with a sure grip yanked his shoulder back into its socket. Peter swallowed back a scream, proud of himself for only letting out a pained grunt.

"Good man," Steve praised, and with unspoken permission inspected Peter's increasingly swollen ankle.

"I don't think it's broken, but you should get it checked out. I can't really do anything for it. Are you okay to get back on your own?"

"Y-yeah," Peter said, accepting a hand from Steve and only wobbling slightly as he stood. He put all of his weight on his uninjured leg. "I can swing home, try not to agitate it too much."

"I know Stark has been through a lot, and I understand why he supports the accords. He feels guilty, and thinks this will help make things right. But it won't, not how it is now. I can't in good conscience comply with it, and I have to stand up for what I believe in," Steve said, and it was the most PSA he'd sounded since he arrived. "But remember: just because we don't agree on things doesn't make us bad guys."

Peter said nothing, too busy with the thoughts whirling around in his brain. Steve retreated back to Barnes's side, "Try to stay safe, alright?"

"I always try," Peter responded, shaking himself back to reality. He shot a web at a steel beam to hoist himself into the air, testing his weight for a moment to see how badly his ankle hurt. It wasn't comfortable by any means, but it was bearable. As he left, his heightened senses just barely caught Barnes's parting words, voice soft enough to guarantee he didn't think he'd be heard.

"Good luck, kid."

 **A/N: Part two: Peter confronts Tony. Coming soon.**


	6. Betrayal (Part Two)

**6\. Betrayal (Part Two)**

Swinging out into the night, Peter felt the strained muscles in his shoulder and throbbing ankle with every small movement of his body. He hurt. But he learned from his mistakes. He knew he couldn't let this go untreated, and in any case, he had some thoughts he needed to sort out.

"Karen, call Tony Stark."

It was only a few seconds before the man himself picked up. " _Yeah, kid?_ "

"You're in town for the weekend, right?"

When he spoke, it was in that rapid-fire way that Peter had come to associate with him being distracted, " _Yeah, until Monday morning, but I have a lot of work to do so unless—"_

"I got hurt," Peter interrupted.

" _What? What happened, do I need to come get you?"_ his voice was snappy, but the underlying concern was still clear.

"No, it's not that bad," Peter winced as he used his injured shoulder to swing from a building. "I'm almost to your place already. It's just, I could use a little bit of help, and you told me to call someone if…"

" _No, I'm glad you did,"_ Tony reassured. _"When you say 'not that bad'...this isn't one of those times where you're lying to me, is it? I shouldn't be worried about you collapsing into my apartment and bleeding out, or anything like that?"_

"No, I swear it's fine." Peter promised, "I'm turning onto your street now, I'll see you in a few."

" _Alright, kid. You'd better not be dying on me_."

Peter ended the call. A short couple of minutes later, he was swinging onto Tony's balcony, where the man himself was waiting, arms crossed over his chest. Peter took off his mask, clenching his teeth at the soreness in his body.

"Well, at least all of your limbs still seem to be attached," Tony joked, eyes raking over the teen's frame, but his smile fell flat when Peter didn't react in kind.

"You need to get some guys to that abandoned warehouse down by the Navy Yard in Brooklyn. There's some unconscious criminals and Toomes's weapons tied up down there." Peter said.

Tony looked at him sharply and frowned, then pulled out his phone and typed out a quick text without hesitation. "And _why_ exactly were you dealing with those weapons?"

"I got a tip. Some guys were buying the weapons so they could give them to someone else to reverse engineer them. I stopped it."

Tony sighed, "You should have called me before. I know you know that too, but because you at least called me for help _now_ , I'll spare you the lecture. Those guys the ones that hurt you too?"

"Yeah, a little, but they're worse off."

"Okay then, kid, come on in and we'll take care of it," Tony said, frowning at Peter's limp when he started moving forward. He directed Peter to sit on the couch, then opened a giant first-aid kit he'd already had on the coffee table. He looked at Peter expectantly. Peter looked at him blankly.

"Come on, details! I can't help if I don't know what's wrong."

"Oh! Uh, dislocated shoulder, and I think I sprained my ankle or something,"

Tony leaned forward, inspecting Peter's shoulder closely, "This doesn't look dislocated. Did you put it back yourself? Because if you did, kid, you've got nerves of steel…" Peter didn't answer, so Tony went ahead and helped him into a sling, then broke open an ice pack for him to press against the injury. "Hey, are you alright? You seem…" he waved his hands around, "…spacy."

"Have you told anyone my identity?" Peter asked suddenly.

"What? No, of course not." Tony responded, seeming taken aback. Peter pressed forward, wanting to believe him but hating the doubt and panic flooding his body.

"Has anyone ever asked you to reveal it?"

"Kid, where is all of this coming from…?"

"Answer the question!" Peter snapped, then shut his mouth quickly. He'd never spoken to Tony like that before. He'd never spoken to _any_ adult like that before.

"If you want to know the truth, yes," Tony said shortly. "Some powerful people have noticed that you have connections to me, and after the Vulture incident gained so much press they've been putting a lot of pressure on me to tell them who you are, but I have _not_ told them because I made a promise to you."

A sudden thought occurred to Peter, making his heart sink into his chest, and he couldn't help the spite that filtered through his voice. "Would I have had to sign the accords if I'd agreed to become an Avenger? Is that the only reason why you asked me to join the team?"

"No you _deserved_ that," Tony stressed, sounding frustrated beyond belief, "You deserved to be on the team, one-hundred percent, signing the accords would have only been a bonus."

"Because apparently keeping my secret is such a _burden_ to you, you've been put under so much _pressure_." Why did he say that? He would have never said that before, but the guilt and stress and self-doubt pooled into his stomach at nauseating levels, and it was the only thing he could think to say.

Tony was starting to look angry, face adopting that same stern expression he'd worn after the ferry incident. "No. Keeping your secret is a responsibilit _y._ One I chose to take on _willingly_ , now I would like to know just where the _hell_ this attitude is coming from."

"I ran into Captain America and the Winter Soldier at the warehouse," Peter blurted out.

He thought he saw something like pain flash through Tony's eyes, but it was gone in an instant. He paused. Sat back. "I'm sorry, you did not just say what I think you said, because there's no way that would have happened and you _wouldn't_ call me, you know they're wanted criminals…"

"They helped me!" Peter defended, "if they hadn't been there, I maybe would have been bleeding out on your carpet, okay? Steve reset my shoulder…"

"It doesn't matter," Tony snapped. "I thought we'd been over this, I thought you understood the definition of responsibility! They need to be brought in and you know it!"

"Why, so you can lock them up and throw away the key too?" Peter said spitefully, "I heard about what you did to the others. Falcon, Hawkeye, Scarlet Witch…"

"You're talking like I personally shoved them in those cells, which, I didn't, by the way," Tony responded venomously, "I thought the Raft was too harsh, but they _broke the law_ , and they have to face the consequences."

"But imprisoning them indefinitely? They were your friends, they saved the world…"

"And they need to be held accountable!" Tony shouted, pounding his hand into the side of the couch, making Peter flinch. "Enhanced individuals are not above the law just because they've done something good in the past. If we don't have anyone to keep us in check, then we can get away with anything, and _that's dangerous._ People _die_ because of what we do and what we don't do, every day!"

"I KNOW THAT!" Peter screamed. "Jesus Christ, don't you think I know that? But this isn't right, there's gotta be—"

"He fucking brainwashed you," Tony spat, "You spent an hour with Steve fucking Rogers and now you're on his side.

"I'm not on his side!" Peter felt insulted that Tony was treating him like a pawn that had been captured, instead of a human being capable of making his own decisions. He wasn't on any "side", and he realized that now. Both Tony and Steve's ideas had merit, but they were both flawed. If they could just get together and _compromise_ …

"You never fucking listen to me, why am I surprised…" Tony muttered, ignoring Peter's comment.

"You didn't tell me everything! What the hell was I supposed to be listening to?"

Tony leaned in toward Peter, getting inches from his face. "And here I thought you were smart. Well listen to this: I'm sick of dealing with snotty, ungrateful teenage brats. I'm done."

A pain sharper than any injury Peter had ever experienced shot straight through his heart. Tony stood up and walked away, not seeing the sudden tears that threatened to spill from Peter's eyes. The front door slammed shut with a sound of finality. For a moment, the penthouse was deathly quiet.

Then the front door opened again to reveal a very tired-looking Happy Hogan. He came around the couch next to Peter and immediately started rifling through the first aid kit.

"Happy?" Peter said cautiously.

"You've really set him off this time, kid," the older man responded, pulling out a roll of wrap. He eased the boot off of Peter's injured leg and expertly started wrapping his ankle. They didn't talk. When Happy had made sure Peter was all patched up, he drove him home.

Peter stood on the curb in front of his apartment and shut the passenger door of Happy's Audi. He hesitated there for a moment, not sure if he should say bye, or thank you, or anything at all.

Happy gave him a sympathetic look, "Tony will get over it eventually. But in the meantime, I'm still here for you, kid. Don't forget that."

Peter nodded dumbly, and Happy drove off. He turned into his apartment building and suppressed a frustrated groan when he saw that the elevator was out of order—again. His ankle wasn't going to be happy with him.

Still, Peter knew his injuries would heal quickly.

His relationship with Tony on the other hand, despite Happy's assurances, might have just been broken beyond repair.

* * *

 _And a excerpt of the next chapter to hold you over, because I'm about to participate in GISHWHES and I'm not sure when I'll be able to finish it..._

"…and, I think I might potentially have a lead on the New York butcher, I just need to talk to—"

"Woah woah, kid," Happy interrupted, "you need to keep away from this whole butcher business, okay?"

"You're joking, right?" Peter said, "this guy is dangerous, and on the streets…"

"Which is why you need to stay away."

"But I can help! He's in my city hurting my people, and I have a responsibility—"

"Look, Peter," Happy said, "I got specific instructions from the boss himself to make sure you don't get involved with this serial killer stuff."

"Oh, and he can't say it to my face?" Peter fumed, "I'm sick of him thinking I'm not capable of taking care of myself—"

"Nobody's saying that," Happy tried to reason, "Mr. Stark is just trying to keep you safe. I am too."

Peter knew that Happy still felt bad about the Vulture situation. Even though Peter had told him multiple times after the fact that he had nothing to feel bad about, that Peter didn't blame him, he knew that not being there for Peter that night was going to weigh heavily on his shoulders for a long time. Peter sighed.

"Fine," he said.


	7. Foregiveness

**+1. Forgiveness**

Peter hadn't seen or heard from Tony since their argument. It had been two months.

Two months with no texts, no calls, no workshop sessions.

Peter knew that Tony was still pissed off at him, and honestly Peter was still angry at Tony too. If Tony didn't want to talk to him, then Peter wasn't going to talk to Tony. He could be just as stubborn as the man when he wanted to be.

Amidst everything, Peter had somehow found himself becoming even closer to Happy. They'd been on better terms ever since homecoming, but it had started through smaller gestures. Peter had tried to scale back on his texting habits out of courtesy, but now when he did text, Happy would usually text back, whether with some sort of answer, or quip, or sometimes the odd emoji (Peter almost died laughing when Happy first discovered the gif keyboard, unexpectedly receiving a gif of Iron Man faceplanting into the ground in the middle of one of their conversations). Sometimes, instead of letting it go to voicemail when Peter called to give a report, Happy would actually pick up, and they'd have normal, civilized conversations.

Ever since Peter's big fight with Tony, however, Happy had taken his comment of "I'm still here for you" seriously; and he'd been making a much stronger effort to be present in Peter's life. Peter had a track record of making bad decisions when he was left alone, and he knew that was probably Happy's biggest motivator for staying in touch. But even still, it was honestly kind of nice.

They'd started talking about things besides superheroing: school, sports, the best restaurants in New York City. That last conversation in particular had turned into such a heated argument that it had actually ended up in a lunch date: visiting each of their top contenders, one right after the other to see whose was best. Peter won. After that, Happy would pick Peter up from school once or twice a week, sometimes just to give him a lift home, sometimes to do things. Fun things. Grabbing dinner from hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon joints, going laser tagging (not something Peter had been expecting the usually uptight Happy to enjoy, but he'd quickly abandoned that train of thought when he'd gotten his ass handed to him in the first round), and even once going to a Mets game (Peter had really liked that trip. Happy had bought him ten hot dogs and an ice cream cone and made a comment about him being "a trash compactor with taste buds". Peter ended up catching a fly ball and gave it to Happy. He swore the man's face lit up like a kid on Christmas day).

It was in this familiar routine that Peter slipped into the passenger seat of Happy's car after school one day, shaking off what must have been a gallon of water from his hair and earning a glare from his driver.

"You ever heard of an umbrella, kid?"

"No, 'cause I got you to drive me home," Peter said cheekily, with as innocent a look as he could muster on his face.

"Uh-huh. Well next time you're sitting in the back."

 _"_ _In other news, an unidentified dead body was found early this this morning in Central Park. Vicious injuries and disfigurement are leading police to believe that this is another victim of the 'New York Butcher', bringing his total attributed body count up to five…"_

"Have you heard anything about that?" Peter asked, sobering.

"If I did, do you think he'd still be out there?" Happy answered rhetorically, changing the radio to a smooth jazz station.

It was all kind of surreal to be hearing about. To Peter, serial killers were reserved for horror movies, or that weird twilight zone of Wikipedia somewhere between nuclear physics and the history of school busses that you'd only ever read at two in the morning. Like when an old person talked about doing air raid drills at school during WWII, or the existence of Blockbuster . Yeah, they were real, but in an abstract way; something that was distanced from him by time and proximity. Certainly not something he would ever have to worry about.

And yet, within the past couple of weeks, bodies started appearing all around the city. People, _real people,_ who had been tortured and killed and left out to rot. Police were having a hard time getting a lead on the guy because he didn't seem to have any motive besides sadistic pleasure. All of the victims were different: both men and women of different races, heights, income levels. The oldest victim so far had been 56 years old; the youngest, 19. They came from all over the city. Literally nothing linked these victims together except the way they had been murdered: a slash across the throat, after what police estimated was up to 48 hours of merciless torture. The bloody disfigurement of the victims had led the media to dub the killer, "The New York Butcher", and the city was more cautious and fearful than ever.

Peter wanted to help, but he wasn't sure where to start, and between school and his normal patrol, trying to pursue more information had kind of fallen to the wayside recently. He'd been hoping Happy might have been clued in to some details not released to the public, but his answer was too frank to be anything but honest. Whoever this killer was, he really was elusive.

"This is your stop, kid," Happy said, pulling up to his apartment building, and Peter was jerked out of his thoughts.

"Thanks…sure you don't want to come up for dinner? May's making meatloaf."

It might have just been a trick of the light, but Peter could have sworn Happy turned slightly green at the idea. "I appreciate it, but I think I'll pass."

Peter shrugged and climbed out of the car, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. He gave a quick wave to Happy before shutting the door, then entered the building and climbed the stairs to his apartment.

As he opened the front door, a cloud of smoke greeted him, filling his lungs and making him cough. A voice from around the corner called out:

"Don't worry, I'm handling it!"

Peter stepped inside to see May furiously waving a towel in the air beneath the smoke detector, the oven door hanging open and a charred brick of what might have been meatloaf sitting on top of the stove. When she saw him, she smiled guiltily at him.

"How does pizza sound?"

…

Three days later, the Butcher hit Queens.

It was the only thing on the news stations that day. Peter knew the victim. His name was Francisco. Spider-Man had helped him find his dog when she ran away one day. Francisco had just gotten his GED, was so excited to start applying for community college. He'd had a wife and a daughter who'd just turned one year old.

May had begged Peter not to patrol for a while, but she didn't stop him when he instead hit the streets harder than ever. She knew she couldn't. He was sad. He was angry. The other murders had been devastating enough, but when the Butcher hit Peter's home, killed someone he knew, something inside of him had snapped. This guy needed to be stopped, and Peter wouldn't rest until that happened.

He stopped by the scene where the body was found. Talked to locals around the area. Dipped into the minds of some of the petty criminals in Queens, letting them get off easier in exchange for information. Pulled favors. It wasn't amounting to much very quickly, but he finally felt like he was doing _something_ , and he couldn't help but share that feeling with Happy when the man took him out for lunch that next weekend.

"…and, I think I might potentially have a lead on the New York Butcher," Peter said through a mouthful of fries, fidgeting excitedly on his vinyl seat "I just need to talk to—"

"Woah woah, kid," Happy interrupted, his mildly interested expression transforming into complete focus in a second. "you need to keep away from this whole butcher business, okay?"

Peter swallowed his food and looked at Happy with wide eyes. "You're joking, right? This guy is dangerous, and on the streets…"

"Which is why you need to stay away."

"But I can help! He's in my city hurting my people, and I have a responsibility—"

"Look, Peter," Happy said, "I got specific instructions from the boss himself to make sure you don't get involved with this serial killer stuff."

Tony Stark. Of course. Peter hadn't heard that name in weeks, but the mention of it reignited something in his chest that wasn't pleasant. He probably thought Peter was getting in over his head, that he'd have to drag the 'ungrateful teenage brat' away from another fight he was destined to screw up. "And he can't say it to my face?" Peter fumed, "I'm sick of him thinking I'm not capable of taking care of myself—"

"Nobody's saying that," Happy tried to reason, "Mr. Stark is just trying to keep you safe. I am too."

That last part was said quieter, and the almost pained tone of it sobered Peter. He knew that Happy still felt bad about the Vulture situation. Even though Peter had told him multiple times after the fact that he had nothing to feel bad about, that Peter didn't blame him, he knew that not being there for Peter that night was going to weigh heavily on his shoulders for a long time. Peter sighed.

"Fine," he said. But only for Happy's sake.

"Good," the man sounded distinctly relieved.

…

A week later, Peter faced off against his Spanish teacher, protesting a mile a minute, "No, no, no, ma'am, you don't understand, I _can't_ have detention!"

"I'm sorry Mr. Parker, but fighting in the hallways is a serious offence. You know the rules," Señora Rodriguez said, folding her arms across her chest.

" _He_ was the one who attacked _me!"_ Peter said, pointing down the now empty hall in the direction that Flash was dragged off to by another teacher, "I didn't even hit him, I was just trying to get him off me!"

"Zero-tolerance policy, Mr. Parker. Be grateful you were only given detention, instead of the two-day suspension that the principal is no doubt giving Flash now."

Peter groaned and rubbed at the black eye that was starting to form on his face. Great, just great. This day was only getting better and better. He'd been out all night last night patrolling, and it had only come to an end after a guy trying to rob a pharmacy had thrown some kind of acid on his suit, eating through some of the circuitry and bugging out the display in his mask. He'd managed to stop the guy before he could escape with a bunch of medicines and chemicals Peter couldn't pronounce, webbing him up for the police to find in the morning, but he knew he couldn't go out in the suit again until it was fixed.

He was exhausted when he got back home by 1a.m., and it was only then that he looked at his phone and was reminded by a helpful text from Ned that he _still_ had a paper to finish writing for English that was due that morning. Putting all troubles with his suit aside, he managed to B.S. something about Hamlet into his word processor that just barely hit the length minimum before passing out on his bed.

By the time he caught the train for school (which he _almost_ missed), Peter was running on only a few hours of sleep. He turned in his English paper with a sigh of relief, only to have a pop quiz in pre-calc the next period that he had _so_ not prepared for. He was pretty sure he'd failed that, and then he had to face fish taco day in the cafeteria, arguably the worst excuse for food that the lunch ladies served. Needless to say, by the time he was confronted by Flash in the hallway before his last class began, Peter wasn't really in the mood.

He might have mouthed off to Flash. Flash might have punched him in the face. So it goes.

And now, instead of rushing home so he could fix his suit and get back out patrolling as quickly as possible, Peter had landed himself in detention. There was no way out of it this time, because May warned him that if she ever got another call about him skipping out on detention for anything less than the imminent destruction of the world, she'd ground him for eternity. To top it all off, when he'd asked MJ if she was going to be there, he got a " _Sorry loser, got places to be_ " in response. He was going to be in for a rough time.

Coach Wilson was leading detention again, and he had the Cap PSA up and ready to go when Peter entered the room. He sat down at a desk near the middle of the room—far enough from the front to not seem like a goody-two-shoes, but equally far from the back to not be harassed by the detention regulars—and pulled out his math book to try to get some reading done. Maybe he could catch up on the chapter he'd forgotten to review before today's pop quiz.

About ten minutes into detention, Peter's phone blared the chorus of Pharrell's "Happy", and he scrambled to reach it and turn it off. _Crap_. He knew for a fact he'd had it on silent, it must have flipped on in his pocket.

 _clapyourhands (3:10): Where are you?_

Oh no. Happy was supposed to pick him up today, he'd completely forgot to tell him he wouldn't be coming.

 _Underoos (3:10): sorry, got detention, forgot to tell you, sorry_

 _clapyourhands (3:11): It's fine kid. I gotta go upstate tonight, so I'll see you next week, okay?_

"Parker!"

Peter startled, slipping his phone down further under his desk as he looked up, "Y-yes Coach?"

"Busted," snickered a kid from the back row.

"No phones in detention. Bring it up here."

Peter dragged his feet as he made his way up to the desk. It just figured that Coach Wilson would be paying attention _today_ of all days. Geez, it was like everything was against him.

Coach Wilson held out his hand, and Peter dropped his phone into it. "You can get this back after detention." He slipped it into the drawer at the top of his desk, and Peter slunk back to his seat.

He buried his head in his math book again, sighing heavily as he tried to digest the words and numbers on the page.

 _"_ _We all know what's right, we all know what's wrong. Next time those turkeys try to convince you of something that you know is wrong, just think to yourself…"_

Peter felt his eyes droop. He was so exhausted. Maybe if he just rested his head for a moment…

Head falling on top of his open math book, the lecturing voice of Captain America soon lulled him to sleep.

…

"Coach Wilson? Mr. Parker?"

Peter jerked his head up, launching suddenly into wakefulness, "Wha'?"

"Huh?" Coach Wilson said, and Peter looked over to see that the man had just woken up too. Principal Morita stood the doorway, somehow managing to look slightly amused and concerned at the same time. All the other kids that had been in detention were gone.

"It's almost five-thirty. Detention ended ninety minutes ago," Morita said, and Peter's eyes flashed to the clock, panic flooding his body as he confirmed the time.

"Oh god, I gotta go," Peter quickly shoved his books and papers into his backpack and swung it over his shoulder, practically flying past Principal Morita out the door and ignoring Coach Wilson's yell of, "Parker!" He wouldn't realize until much, much later that he'd forgotten his phone.

He raced out onto the street and started making his way to the train when suddenly his enhanced hearing caught a muffled scream coming from a nearby alley. He froze for a second, then didn't even think twice about heading towards the sound as adrenaline flooded his body. He had no suit. He had no plan. But someone was in trouble, and it was his duty to help. Aunt May could wait another few minutes.

A man stood at the end of the alley, hood drawn up and a dark bandana covering his face, hand over the mouth of a woman struggling in his grip.

"Hey, leave her alone!" Peter shouted, flinging off his backpack and preparing for a fight as the man's gaze shot toward him. Seeming panicked by Peter's appearance, the man pulled out a syringe and jabbed into the woman's neck, but was only able to deplete about half the plunger before Peter charged and knocked him away with a kick. The man's attention now completely diverted to Peter, the woman started slowly stumbling her way to the entrance of the alley, leaning heavily on the wall beside her as whatever drug injected into her started to take effect.

Peter grappled with the man, throwing kicks and punches wherever he could land them, but his opponent put up a surprisingly good defense. He came in close to aim a hit at the man's head when his spider sense exploded, and before he could even think he felt a sharp pain in his side. He looked down only for a moment to see a short knife sticking out of his torso, having sliced easily through his t-shirt and _not_ his reinforced suit.

In those few seconds of distraction, the man whipped out another syringe and plunged it into Peter's neck, and Peter could feel the contents burning through his veins as the man emptied it into his system. The effect was immediate: his strength started sapping away, his vision went fuzzy…

He was out in a matter of seconds.

…

He woke up in a daze.

It was like he had felt when he'd had his first couple of drinks at Flash's party so long ago. He was conscious and aware, but everything was just fuzzy enough to feel slightly surreal. He shook his head, trying to will the feeling away. It didn't work. His head throbbed in response.

 _Focus, Peter_ , he tried to tell himself. _Take stock of your surroundings_.

He was lying on something cold and hard. Some sort of table, it seemed, propped upward at an angle so he wasn't lying completely flat. An alarm went off in some distant part of his brain as he realized he had been stripped down to his boxers. His arms and legs were spread-eagled, secured at the corners of the table with cuffs. Looking at them, they didn't look extraordinarily reinforced, and he knew from past experience (that he'd rather not talk about) that he should be able to break out of them easily. He experimentally pulled one wrist with all his might, but found that his strength had all but left him, the smallest movement leaving him feeling exerted. His arm flopped back to the table uselessly.

The drugs. Whatever he'd been injected with, it must still be in his system. That's why his brain still felt fuzzy, and it must've been why he couldn't break out of the cuffs. If he could just wait for it to wear off, he should be able to break free…

But how long would that take?

He pushed down the panic starting to bubble in his chest and tried to distract himself by looking around. The room was windowless, with a concrete floor and walls made of cinderblock. If Peter had to guess, he was probably in some sort of basement. A harsh fluorescent shop light hung above him, flickering occasionally. A wall of industrial cabinets stood directly opposite him, some vague and sharp-looking metal instruments sitting on the counter that topped them. The only entrance to the room was a metal door on the wall to his left.

Taking everything in, Peter suddenly knew with certainty who had taken him.

The Butcher.

At that moment the door slammed open, the loud noise setting off Peter's heightened (and with the drugs, now especially sensitive) hearing and making him flinch. In walked the Butcher, wearing the same black hoodie as earlier, but now with the hood down and bandana gone. He looked…surprisingly normal. He was average height, with short, well groomed brown hair and a clean-shaven face. A cigarette hung out of his mouth. His features weren't overly sinister. Nothing about him was especially defining. Peter wasn't sure if that made him scarier or not.

"You're awake," he said in a low voice, "Huh. Usually takes a lot longer than that, but I guess you're just full of surprises, aren't ya?"

"What do you want?" Peter said hoarsely, tugging again at the restraints around his limbs. Still no luck.

The man laughed. "A sports car, a mansion in the Hamptons. My own private island. A hot chick leaning off my side. But right now? I want to watch you _squirm_."

He approached Peter, a new look in his eyes that Peter hadn't seen before. Something dangerous—something deadly.

For the first time, Peter felt afraid.

The Butcher plucked the cigarette from his lips, the tip glowing bright orange, and pressed it into Peter's bare arm. Peter kept his lips pressed tightly shut as the acrid smell of burnt flesh and cigarette smoke invaded his nostrils, determined not to give the man a reaction.

"You're a tough little bastard. I appreciate that," he said, at last drawing the cigarette away from Peter's arm and tossing it on the floor. He brushed a finger over the newly blistered skin, and Peter's arm reflexively jerked away. "I had a perfect little system going. No witnesses, no complications. That woman was _mine_ ," he snarled, one hand shooting up to grip Peter's left index finger "and then you messed everything up. So now, I'm going to mess you up."

He twisted. The finger snapped. Peter screamed.

…

Peter didn't know how much time had passed, but it felt like an eternity before the Butcher stopped his torment and left the room to take a break. He slumped in his shackles as soon as the door clicked shut, breathing heavily through clenched teeth as he pushed through the pain.

He pulled at the cuffs again, metal biting into his wrists and ankles, but he still couldn't break free. The drug was still in his system.

 _God_ , he hurt so much. In the line of duty as Spider-Man he'd been concussed, stabbed, shot, _and_ had an entire building collapse on him, but he would go through all of that again if it could take away the pain he was feeling now.

Three of his fingers were broken. His entire torso was covered with sickeningly black bruises, at least a couple of his ribs were cracked, and he could feel the bones grating in his chest every time he breathed or screamed. His entire body was dotted with more cigarette burns, and one giant burn covered his left shoulder from when the Butcher had decided to dispense the cigarette and go straight for the lighter. Hot, sticky blood coated his face from a broken nose and split lip, making it hard for him to breathe. And, of course, there was the stab wound in his side from the earlier fight, still not yet healed. Peter wasn't sure if it was another side effect of the drugs or if his body was just too confused on what to deal with first, but his healing factor didn't seem to be working. It was concerning, but it was also on the bottom of the list of things he was worried about at the moment.

Peter wanted to go home. He wanted to go home, and curl up under a big blanket on the sofa with a mug of hot chocolate, and he wanted Aunt May to hug him and tell him everything was going to be alright.

She must be worried about him by now. Would she be looking for him? Would anyone be looking for him?

Some part of the back of his mind whispered _Tony_ , and no matter what he did, Peter couldn't push the thought away. He would be looking for Peter. If he'd been told Peter was missing, he'd be looking for him, because he was a good man and he would do the right thing, despite the fact that the last time they'd seen each other had ended in an explosive argument.

But even if he was looking, Peter doubted Tony was going to find him in time. He had no phone, no suit, nothing for Tony to track him by. He knew he would likely die here, alone and broken in this cold, dark basement, and Tony was going to think it was all Peter's fault.

It wasn't fair. He'd listened this time. He'd done everything he was supposed to do, he'd done exactly as he was told, and he'd still gotten punished for it. When Happy told him not to pursue the Butcher anymore, he'd _listened._ Against all of his instincts, he'd dropped the entire investigation.

But he'd broken rules and hidden the truth before, and with Tony still mad at him ( _"You never fucking listen to me,"_ ) there was no doubt in Peter's mind that Tony would think Peter did this all on purpose. He knew Happy checked in with him. He would tell Tony that he told Peter to not go after the Butcher, that Peter agreed, and then when he realized Peter was taken, Tony would think that he'd lied just to spite him. That he'd put his own personal drive for justice first, just like at the ferry. That he'd been stupid and gotten in over his head, again.

Peter would die, and the last memory Tony would have of him would be their argument.

He felt like he was going to cry.

He suppressed the urge, not wanting the Butcher to see tears on his face when he returned. He thought of May, of Ned, of MJ and Happy, trying to gain some sort of comfort from their memory. He tried to picture their faces, to hear their voices in his head. He clung to every happy thought he could muster up in this dark place. If he was going to die, he at least wanted to die remembering those who loved him.

His head ached.

…

The Butcher didn't return for a long time, and Peter's exhausted body somehow managed to fall into a fitful sleep. He was plagued with nightmares. Everything that had ever tormented him came back in his sleep, only now visions of blood and pain and torture came with it.

He woke screaming, with electricity pouring through his veins.

The Butcher was standing in front of him, pressing some kind of juiced-up stun gun to Peter's thigh. His entire body was rigid, blood burning, and for a moment, his vision whited out. Then it was over, and the Butcher was grinning wickedly at Peter.

"Good morning, sunshine. Ready for another round?"

It was then that Peter noticed the man had changed clothes, and he realized that it must have been the next day. Without a window or clock, he had no way of knowing for sure what exact time it was. The butcher pocketed the stun gun and pulled out a short knife, the same one that had stabbed Peter at their earlier fight. Peter pressed himself back against the table as the knife came closer and closer, but he couldn't escape as it dragged across his collar bone, the cut shallow but deep enough to bleed.

"Y'know, I haven't even used my favorite toys on you yet," he glanced briefly back at the counter behind him, "This is going to be fun."

…

Hours passed. Peter's voice was raw from screaming. The Butcher had kept well on his promise to use his "toys", and all matters of blades and other devices meant to hurt had been used on his body. There wasn't an inch of him left that wasn't in some sort of pain. Whenever the man's eyes were off of him, Peter tested his bonds, feeling himself getting slowly stronger despite everything. He wasn't sure how much time he had left. A feeling of dread in his stomach kept telling him it wasn't much. The Butcher turned his back to Peter, picking up a particularly vicious knife that glinted in the weak fluorescent light. In one last, desperate attempt, Peter pulled at the cuffs.

The snapped open.

He didn't even have time to think, he lunged forward. The pure adrenaline flooding his body kept him from feeling any pain as he tackled the Butcher to the ground, and the man gave out a strangled cry as he hit the floor. Peter flipped him over, straddling him and noticing that the knife the Butcher had been holding had sliced into his own side, and Peter flung it away before landing punch after punch on the man's face, broken fingers and all.

 _Hit, hit, hit, hit…_ over and over, until he had a broken nose that matched Peter's and blood coated his face and Peter's knuckles. The Butcher struggled, but Peter was strong, and desperate, and kept him in place. This man had hurt so many people, he'd hurt Peter, _tortured_ him. His vision went red, static filled his ears, and it was almost as if he wasn't in control of his own body as his hands wrapped around the Butcher's neck and squeezed.

The man gasped for breath, hands clawing at Peter to be released, to try to protect his throat, but Peter squeezed and squeezed for all his strength. He felt something collapse under his hands.

The Butcher went still.

Peter's entire body slackened and he leaned back, head starting to clear as he stared in mute horror at what he'd just done.

He'd killed a man.

When he'd first gotten his powers, he swore to himself he was only going to use them to help people. He'd fight, and he'd incapacitate, but he'd never, _ever_ kill.

 _But he was going to kill you_ , a voice in Peter's head whispered, _he was going to kill you, he'd already killed so many other people, this was the only way to stop him_.

Peter scrambled off the body, feeling sick. He needed to get out of here. He needed to get out of here, get away, get _help_. He found his clothes placed on a smaller table that was sitting behind the one he'd been shackled to, and he hastily put them on, ignoring the blood that started immediately soaking through. He had to give up on the button of his jeans, battered hands unable to secure it in place. Once clothed, he skittered toward the door, and it opened easily. There wasn't even a lock on it. The Butcher had been that confident in his own safety.

The door led to a labyrinth of dark hallways within what Peter assumed was some sort of abandoned commercial building. He needed to find his way out. He needed to find stairs.

He twisted and turned, relying purely on instinct as he went along. The adrenaline was starting to fade, and the pain was once again making itself known. It was excruciating, almost unbearable, but Peter kept moving, knowing it was his only chance.

He eventually found stairs, and painstakingly made his way up them, clinging to the railing as he went. He opened the door at the top, and the dim light filtering through boarded-up windows made him realize that the building was actually an abandoned hotel. Peeling wallpaper covered the walls of the long hall in front of him, small rooms branching off left and right the whole way down, and the open door behind Peter reading "EMPLOYEES ONLY".

He stumbled down the hallway, planning to follow the exit signs until he found his way out. At one point he tripped on a piece of torn up carpet, and he would have fallen if he hadn't caught himself on the wall at the last minute. As he pushed himself upright again, his hand left behind a streak of blood.

He turned a corner, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he finally saw the doors to the entrance. They were boarded up tightly, and Peter guessed that the Butcher had used a different, less conspicuous entrance to get in. He'd have to break through the boards, but surely he could do that, couldn't he? After everything he'd been through, he could find the strength to do this one last thing.

He made it only a couple of steps forward when suddenly the doors were blasted open, making Peter cover his ears and clench his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, Iron Man was there.

They stared at each other for a moment, equally in shock.

Iron Man's faceplate opened first, revealing an inscrutable expression on Tony that Peter had never seen before. The rest of the suit opened moments later, and suddenly Tony was wrenching himself out of it, making his way toward Peter.

A lump welled up deep in Peter's throat, all of the pain and anxiety and guilt coalescing all at once and coming out as a broken sob. "I didn't go after him, I swear," he said, the need to explain pushing away all other thoughts. "She just—I thought she was being robbed, I just wanted to help, I didn't know, I was just _Peter Parker_ , and he…he hurt me so much and I tried to get away but the drugs…I just wanted to help, I'm sor—"

He was cut off as suddenly he was enveloped in a hug, Tony's arms wrapping around him tightly as his face buried itself in Peter's hair.

" _Thank god you're alive,_ " Tony breathed, then he pulled himself away and held Peter gently by his shoulders, mindful of his injured body as he made the boy meet his eyes. His voice was familiar, and firm, and just a tiny bit desperate. "Don't you _dare_ apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for, _nothing,_ do you understand me?"

But the words didn't quite register as Peter just continued to stare at Tony with wide eyes, "I killed him."

Tony pulled him into another hug, "Oh _kid_ ," he mumbled, and never before had Peter heard the word said with so much emotion, so much anguish, so much _love_. He broke down on the spot, tears and snot and blood ruining Tony's already rumpled suit. Tony only tightened his hold on Peter, one hand rubbing small circles into his back as Peter gripped onto him like a lifeline.

"It's gonna be okay," he said, and it sounded like he was trying to reassure himself as well as Peter, "You're gonna be okay, you're safe now, I'm here, we're gonna fix this…"

They clung to each other for what seemed like an eternity, Peter gasping with sobs as Tony continued to mutter words of reassurance. Then finally, Tony pulled away, still keeping his hands on Peter's shoulders.

"We have to go. The police will be here soon, and you need medical attention."

"I don't want to go to a hospital, please…"

"No, no hospitals," Tony assured, "I'm taking you upstate, I won't leave your side, I promise."

Peter made a shaky nod that Tony took as permission, and then the man wrapped an arm around the boy and helped him over to the door. He let him go for just a moment as he stepped back into the Iron Man suit, then scooped Peter up into his arms. The teen didn't even protest at being carried like a child, clenching tightly to the suit and shutting his eyes as they started to walk out the door and into the bright light outside.

As they took off to the New Avengers Facility, Tony looked at the frail, beaten boy in his arms, his heart clenching in a way he'd never felt before. He was going to fix this. He was going to fix everything.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, the noise being swallowed up by his helmet. He was going to change. He was going to learn from his mistakes.

Peter Parker would never be abandoned ever again.


	8. Sequel!

**Hi everyone! Not a new chapter to this, sorry. I just realized that because doesn't have a series function, some of you may not know that there's a sequel to this fic! It's called** ** _Without Deeds_** **, and it's currently in progress (5 chapters as of 3/12/18)! You can find it on my profile here, or on Archive of Our Own! (btw, if you have an ao3, I highly recommend following me there instead, as I usually post new content there first). In order to give this "chapter" a little bit of content, here's a peek into** ** _Without Deeds_** **!**

"How long have I been out?"

"Three days. Your body still hasn't completely healed."

Peter ignored the obvious last statement for a moment in favor of being shocked by the first one. He'd missed three days? And that was on top of the extra day and a half he'd been missing. So what would that make it…Tuesday?

"I have school," Peter blurted out.

Tony looked confused. "You almost died, and you're worried about school?"

"I'm in five AP classes, and I have a huge presentation in Spanish. Oh my god, the _homework_ …"


End file.
